Sometimes you start writing a recipe and the title gets long. Very long. Because you see, in your writer’s mind, where this is heading. It’s Noodle Salad for godsake. We’ve got to make it interesting somehow!

Let’s first establish the ingredient list:

• Noodles (is this necessary to list in a “Noodle Salad” recipe?) (I prefer spirals because the oil and seasonings have a lot of surface area to cling to.)
• Olive Oil (Extra Virgin? Sure. Depends on your level of trust regarding where the olives have been.)
• Onions
• Peppers
• [insert other vegetables you like to eat and want to sear in a searingly hot cast iron skillet]
• Herbs, such as oregano and other “Italian-ey” leaves
• Salt, Pepper, Garlic (the big three!)
• White wine of some variety, preferably about to go off because you forgot a half bottle at the beach that time and had to circle back the next day and remarkably it was still there)

First step, in the spirit of Édouard de Pomian, set a pot of water to boil on the stove. (This reference is specially dedicated to the finest of friends who will know exactly who he is and will know it will have been churlish not to include this essential reference!) The water will, eventually, hold the noodles that you have chosen. So, choose your vessel wisely….

(How much do you salt the water? … Are you kidding me? At this stage in our relationship, you know you can do what you choose; I do what I choose; if you don’t like it, get another cook book (website)!)

Next, while the water boils, begin chopping. Vegetables. Chop the vegetables that is. No fingers. No suey. Just vegetables. Here’s what mine looked like:

You see those zucchini / courgettes in the background? Those came straight from Wombat’s Garden, and if you don’t know what that is, then you’re one of three people from outside the family who is reading this recipe. Keep those in mind as we proceed.

(You see that knife in the foreground? That’s handmade in New Zealand from a recycled band saw blade with a sustainably-sourced American ash handle. It’s carbon steel. It’s the most no-bullshit piece of kit you’ll ever find and the sharpest object I’ve ever held. You should have one. I have two — the santoku knife as well. Food tastes better when chopped with a handmade Nuz knife. (I just wrote that line, and yes, I’m available for hire as a marketing director, content writer, script supervisor, improv comedian, short-order cook, raconteur, party animal, etc….))

Back to the story: Because I’m basically allergic to everything when it’s raw, I sear the living shit out of everything — when it’s raw — until it isn’t raw anymore. Enter the cast iron skillet.

(I recently cleaned out the ol’ Lodge skillet. Heresy you say? Fine. I don’t care. Drop a comment at the bottom if you’re fussed. The problem was all the build-up from two decades of refusing to clean the pan. There was so much shit that there was no longer a smooth surface in the pan, which defeats part of the purpose of the cast iron; you want a smooth and really fucking hot surface to make contact with the food. Why smooth? Well, think about it. If it’s not smooth, the amount of material touching the food is less than it could be; the smoother the better. (As in all things?)

(Since you asked, I cleaned it with oven cleaner. Yes yes, I know there are a thousand ways to restore cast iron. This is what I chose in this instance, largely because it’s quick and easy (like me!) and I didn’t have the patience or space to push for anything more elaborate with two kids jostling about a 80 square metre flat flexing their perpetually poor attitudes toward one another, toward me, toward eggs, toward melted cheese, toward pissing directly in the toilet rather than on the toilet (which I just can’t get my head around), toward (gasp!) noodle salad…. It’s non-stop catastrophe around here folks!)

Anyway, I seared those round green slices of garden-fresh joy like this:

What the fuck else is in that pan???

Well let me tell you. These were leftover from the pizza we did yesterday. I saved them, plus a couple shreds of roasted green pepper. Want to see the pizza? Yeah cool. Me too (maybe someday I’ll do a recipe):

I did those separately because I wanted to ensure that there was sufficient flat cast iron surface to make contact with the faces of the vegetable. That makes them delicious-er. The rest of the vegetables went in after I removed those bits (stored safely in a warm porcelain bowl). The whole scene looked like this:

(It occurs to me in this moment: these are pretty pictures, but inessential to the technique involved in making noodle salad. To put a fine point on it: we’re searing vegetables that we’ll toss with noodles any minute now. Why all these pictures. Yes. I’m loathe to admit it. I’m a food pornographer. I’m sorry. I’m sorry to all the food I’ve exploited to create these recipes. I’m sorry for reaping all the glory and all the honours, when really we should be celebrating the …. Yeah fuck that. I like sexy food pictures. So do you. Let’s proceed…..)

When you’re happy with the state of the vegetables, add some noodles. Remember those? I reckon somewhere in the middle of all this your timer went off and you strained them and tossed them lightly in oil. Yes? You did? Oh thank goodness!

While you’re tossing, ensure that you add some wine. That old weird wine that you were unsure about. Add that. It’ll contribute that je ne sais quoi, or as the Sicilians say: “what the fuck is that extra taste after I swallow?” (I worked for a few years at a Sicilian delicatessen, and I have yet to recreate the magic they created so effortlessly, despite insisting on using the exact same pan they used for almost literally everything that ran through the place. Anyway….)

Here’s how mine looked:

You’ll observe, no doubt, that I’ve added some seasonings. And oil. And everything else I promised. Then I sort of toss-stirred it around. To be honest, then I scraped it into a bowl and toss-stirred more noodles that were left and combined them as well into the big bowl of noodle goodness. Here’s how it looked in the end:

Different lighting? I dunno. This is a mobile phone camera. Do I look like a professional food photographer to you? Do I look like I have a budget and a production team? I have nothing my friend. Nothing but a rather sizeable stock pot of freshly-tossed noodle salad, which I shall bring to some casual barbecue or another, never revealing the deep Sicilian secret to this recipe.

I can’t say.

Nope.

It’s secret.

…

(OK. The secret is to never overdo the oil. Better that it’s a bit dry than greasy. And, add some butter if you’re into the salty goodness of melted churned milk fat. Doesn’t that sound appealing!) ((When in doubt, more salt.)) (((Too much salt? A dash of lemon juice will cure it.)))

***

Did you enjoy this recipe? Great.

That is all. Our exchange is over.

You can’t leave comments.

I don’t even care if you read the other recipes. Does this look like the monetised site of an influencer? Nope. I don’t think Clarke himself even knows this homage to his existence exists.

Please just enjoy some noodle salad.

Why do we need yet another classic fried chicken recipe? We don’t. Everyone and his brother knows how to fry chicken. But surely you’ve figured out by now this isn’t really a cooking site.

Why would we even need yet another recipe site? Nadia Lim has the internet sewn up already, doesn’t she? Not to mention Jamie Oliver (couldn’t find his website; whatever).

What the hell is Recipes for Clarke then?

Well, it’s a site where I write recipes that, for some reason, I think Clarke Gayford, the world’s coolest stay-at-home-dad, might appreciate. But not just Clarke.

You realise I used to write a fairly popular parenting blog? I retired it. (But the archives live on. (You can trust that link / server and port and all that. It’s run on a little laptop sitting on top of my amplifier here in Auckland. Totally safe.)) It was simply time to move on to something new. (And so RootBeer.co.nz was born, and its various offshoots.)

What I want to say is that writing makes me happy. I like the low-pressure kind of composition that sites like this involve. I don’t even plan my posts. They simply flow. It’s good fun, and cathartic, you might say. (And I thought it would be funny to dedicate a website to someone who, obviously, and rightly so, would never have the slightest interest in having fuck-all to do with it. Now here we are.)

So look. If you want to make fried chicken like an American. Hello. I’m here to help. I still hold a valid passport. And I still remember enough to hold some authority, I think. (Do I?) Moving on….

Ingredients

• Chicken (does this really need an entry on the ingredient list?)
• Flour
• Egg and milk (they’ll get mixed)
• (optional) Hot sauce
• Oil (to fry in, duh)
• Various seasonings

What separates this fried chicken from that fried chicken is what goes into “various seasonings”. Eleven herbs and spices? Marketing bullshit. Welcome to the real, homemade thing! What separates this fried chicken from that fried chicken is how we treat it when it’s cooked, in order to keep it crispy. That’s it. Full stop. Also, what separates this fried chicken from that fried chicken is whether the chicken has been frozen previously. That’s it. Full stop. But also:

• How long you “marinate” in seasonings prior to flouring
• The quality and temperature of the oil
• Free range or battery? (Oh it’s gonna get batter-y one way or another!)
• Do you have a drive through?
• Can I get onion rings with that?

Time for a picture:

This was how my first batch started. And here are some of the seasonings:

That’s my favourite garlic salt, a pepper grinder (you can tell because it’s black), and vegetable stock. There are other secret ingredients, but I can’t tell you here what they are (obviously they’re secret!). However, I told you here.

I can tell you that one time I tried onion flakes, but they ended up tasting burnt by the time the chicken was completely fried. I recommend against onion flakes now.

And the thing about vegetable stock: nobody knows what’s in it — and it’s impossible to find out — so it adds a je ne sais quoi. You know — that thing you don’t know.

Anyway, here’s the:

Method

Plan ahead. You want to rinse the chicken under cold water, shake off the drops, and put it in some kind of vessel. Above I put it in a glass cake pan. Then, salt it, pepper it, give it a few of the secret seasonings — but importantly salt. Let it sit a bit, covered if you’ve got a problem with fucking goddamned flies everywhere all summer goddamnit!

Thinking ahead, the cooler the chicken is when it hits the oil, the more it affects the temperature of the oil (negatively). Consistency is key here, and so a nearly-room-temperature chicken is your friend. (Which is really simple to accomplish if you struggle to make new friends. However the chicken is dead. Bonus: dead friends have low expectations, so.)

Now, dump out a cup or so of flour per flat of chicken parts. (I’m using these little wings because Charlie loves them more than he loves his own arm.) Season the flour. How much seasoning? What am I a fortune teller? You know what you like. Express what you like into the flour! (Why an exclamation point? I dunno. I’m leaving it.)

Maybe start the oil at this point. Put some fire under your cast iron skillet! I do it about half full of canola oil. Why canola oil? Because it’s cheap and tasteless, and so am I! (Exclamation point?)

Now, in a bowl, whip up an egg with a splurt of milk and (optionally) a shot of hot sauce. That’s what’s going on in the picture above. I know; you thought it was a bleeding yolk. Ew. But no. It’s hot sauce.

Does the hot sauce make a difference in the end? Charlie swears it does, and somehow he can tell when I alter the recipe ever so slightly, so, I’m continuing with this technique.

Dip a few pieces of chicken in the egg wash, being sure to get the whole thing coated with egg. (This is a disgusting-feeling thing to do, but it’s essential.) Then, ONE PIECE AT A TIME, put an egged chicken part into the flour. Here’s what I do: I do the egg wash with my right hand and leave my left hand relatively dry for the flouring, so things don’t get too clumpy. Once the egged chicken is in the flour, I use my more-or-less dry hand to fluff some flour all over it. When it’s entirely coated, set it on a plate or something clean and sturdy nearby.

When the oil is hot — wait a minute. Is he going to tell us how to tell that the oil is hot? Yes I am.

You can take a drop of water on your finger and flick it in the oil. Does it sputter horrifically? Great. You’re ready.

Now, this takes some experience, so don’t beat yourself up if you don’t get it right the first time. Put a piece of floured chicken in the oil. You’ll see bubbles come out the sides. Perfect. Not huge popping-hot bubbles, but little champagne bubbles. That indicates you’ve got the oil right. (The bubble texture will change over time. Don’t worry.)

Brian: can’t you measure the oil temperature.

Fucking amateurs. I don’t do temperature. This is entirely by feel. Fucking amateurs!

I typically add chicken to the oil in a spiral pattern so that I know which one went in first. I’ll use this important knowledge when I flip the chicken (we’re getting there). Add enough chicken parts so that you have something like this:

Mmmm that’s looking delicious.

Flip it from time to time to ensure even cooking. And let it go until the colour is “right”. Like this:

Fucking nailed it! Look at that colour! Nice and golden orange brown. Mmmmmhm.

Now, I promised to say some stuff about how to keep the chicken crispy. The pan you see here is special. It’s a roasting pan, but it has a home-fashioned wire grid in the bottom that keeps food off the bottom of the pan proper. In doing this, you allow the oil to drip off the chicken, rather than have the chicken sit in its own oil (think of the fry baskets at Maccas). I store the pan in the oven at a low temperature (between 50 and 100 (I cook in metric, by the way)) while I continue frying. (The mission is to keep the food warm without cooking it further, otherwise it will dry out.)

Onions? Haloumi? You bet!

Inevitably, I have flour left over. So I raid the fridge and find anything and everything to deep fry. Onion rings are an obvious hit. Check it:

(That’s how things look when they’re floured.)

Haloumi cheese is absolutely incredible done up like this. Cut it into a thickness of no more than a centimeter.

Broccoli, cauliflower. You name it. It’s deep-fryable. In the end:

That’s haloumi on top in that last shot. Oh man it’s good.

Happiness

I grew up on Johnny Cash. Kris Kristofferson wrote a song that Johnny did a bang up job on: Sunday Morning Coming Down. It includes the lyrics:

But I lit my first and watched a small kid cussin’ at a can that he was kicking
Then I crossed the empty street and caught
The Sunday smell of someone fryin’ chicken
And it took me back to something that I’d lost somewhere somehow along the way

That line about frying chicken always got me. You know? Even though we never fried chicken when I was a kid. There’s something in it that I always wanted. I knew from that line that you could feel like you’d lost something — but I didn’t have anything I ever felt would “take me back to something”, when I was a kid. I wanted that. That kind of defined my existence for a while.

Look at me now. And look at Charlie. And look at Ray. (Clarke: look at Neve.) I know you’re doing what I’m doing, and giving the kids something they might get taken back to somewhere somehow along the way.

That’s it. That’s the secret ingredient, Clarke. We found it!

It’s not the je ne sais quoi. It’s got nothing to do with “knowing”.

It’s got everything to do with “being”.

It’s who we are, who we’ve become, who we made ourselves into. This is it, man. All wrapped up in fried chicken. This is life in food.

So, why another recipe site?

It ain’t recipes.

This is about taking time. Sharing experiences. This is narrative in ways that recipe sites aren’t.

And there’s no mission, no advertising. No way to make money off you reading it. I wouldn’t have it that way. There’s no happiness in that. Just buy me a beer some day.

Why this site? Because one day, when he feels the pull back to something that he felt he lost — something he wants back –, Charlie will have this. He’ll have the story. He’ll have the memories. He’ll have the story of how I felt when I cooked for him.

He doesn’t get it now; he’s too young. But I still do it. I cook for him every day, the best stuff I can. But if he doesn’t even get it, why do I still do it?

Because this is what I wanted to have — to have possibly lost — but I didn’t. Because I never had it in the first place. The food. The feelings. None of it.

You feel me Clarke? Like when you went back to Gisborne: “There’s no place like it,” you said. I can’t say that about where I grew up — well, I guess I can, but I don’t mean good by it. And that’s what I’m trying to convey here. (In a fried chicken recipe? Apparently, yes.) I want Charlie to think of Auckland — to think of Devonport — like you think of Gisborne. Like there’s no place like it, because of how we made it, not because of where it is on a map. Because of where it exists in our lives. I want Charlie to feel like there’s something to recapture — something about us. And maybe recipes are the best I got, because they’re the most I give.

This might be addressed to you, Clarke, because that’s good for a laugh, but it’s FOR Charlie (and for Ray, but Charlie gets the fried chicken recipe! Sorry little guy.)

Another recipe site: because one day, Charlie, you’ll read this recipe. (You’re sitting in your room playing Minecraft right now, oblivious to the mortality I feel far too often.) You’ll never remember that Minecraft game, but you’ll read this story and you’ll know how much I love you with every memory you can conjure, slurpy as that sounds.

Well well, you’ll say. The old son of a bitch wasn’t kidding.

And hot damn could he fry chicken.

Ah, Beef Stew. I’m perfectly comfortable in myself to admit that I had to look up the difference between soup and stew — partly because I bought SOUP beef, not STEW beef, and given my frequent states of great anxiety or agitation, I was unsure how to proceed.

It’s this. Soup: a bunch of stuff in liquid. Stew: A bunch of (slightly larger) stuff in (slightly less) liquid. Easy peasy (lemon squeezy).

Now, why do we need an introduction to an absolute staple of basically every cuisine on Earth? (Am I overstating the pervasiveness of this dish? Probably. But the world is so very full of things, and many of those things are full of beef.) The answer: Beef Stew is controversial. Not controversial like Socialism and leaf blowers (you know how I feel about the devil’s motorised broom, yes?) Here the controversy concerns what makes the perfect Beef Stew. (Why am I capitalising Beef Stew? I don’t know, to be honest. But it started and now there seems no way to stop it, so I’m rolling with it.)

Our goal isn’t perfection. It’s simplicity and delicousnessocity. Ultimately, this recipe should be entirely uncontroversial, though obviously also perfect. (If you disagree, I invite feedback in the form of smoke signals or letters typed on vintage typewriters. Bonus points for carrier pigeon delivery.)

(Joke: How do you make beef stew? Tie a cow to a steak.)

Let’s just start with the ingredients, most of which can be seen in the lead picture:

• Beef
• Potatoes
• Onion
• Butter + Flour = Roux
• Seasonings, like beef stock cubes, salt and pepper

(* Vegan warning: Let’s note that both potatoes and onions are suitable for vegan consumption, so you can consider this a Partially Vegan recipe. But, if it’s pure veganity you’re looking for, these elements must be carefully extracted from the final product and washed of all their meatiness, flavour, and overall yum. Sorry. (I mention this because I thought, wouldn’t it be funny if someone tried to make vegan Beef Stew — since the very definition of “stew” includes the inclusion of meat. Of course, in an internet age, we’re twenty keyboard clicks away from a lengthy page of search results showing eleventy billion such insipid meatless meat stew recipes. It’s horrific. I didn’t dare click the “images” tab. But I’m tempted — just as I’m tempted by pimple popping videos. C’mon, you know you are too…. (Sometimes I wish I could smell the internet. I know, that’s weird, but it’s a fact about me; I truly believe we’re missing out. And there’d be a lot less pornography. Have you ever imagined how sweaty and shitty those sets must smell? Is it only me? It can’t be only me; we live in a world with vegan Beef Stew for chrissake!)))

(* Gluten tolerance warning: You can make a simple gluten-free version of this recipe by melting a tray of ice cubes and adding a single bun-less cheeseburger, minus the cheese. Salt to taste. Fuck off.)

Back to the very ideas of purity and perfection. There is, obviously, no perfect Beef Stew. This recipe is simple. Deceptively simple. Almost a foundation for other beef-related stews (not capitalised, for reasons I cannot identify). It’s the technique that makes it so delicious. Note there are only three main ingredients, two of which are vegan!

This could be an even more vegan recipe if you add carrots to your beef stew, as some lunatics do. Obviously that’s a terrible idea because carrots are the shittest vegetable. — actually. — celery is the shittest vegetable. — or, come to think of it, what is the shittest vegetable? Eggplant? Beets? Yams? — oh there it is. Yams. Fuck a Yam.

(“Fuck a Yam”: That could be a bumper sticker to advertise a fetish brothel franchise. (If you’re hip to urban slang, you’ll surely agree. If this doesn’t seem sufficiently punny, then I recommend you DO NOT search any website related to urban slang for the definition of the term “yam”. Simply move on. You can do it. I believe in you. This internet can’t possibly hold such sway…. (And I’m very glad I couldn’t smell that web search.)))

(Joke: What’s the difference between roast beef and pea soup? Anyone can roast beef.)

Back to the recipe and the techniques. (Finally.)

First, let’s make a roux. (Are you surprised? You must be new here. Welcome.)

(Edit: actually, this is the first-but-one step. Really first: salt the soup stew beef and let it come to room temperature — for a few hours at least I reckon. We’ve been through this.) First, heat up your cast iron skillet. When appropriately hot (you know how this works by now, yes?) sear the stew (I’m going to just call it stew beef from now on) beef. Why are we doing this? Well, we want to lock in some of the good juices and give it some structure and seared taste. If you simply drop stew beef in liquid, it’ll still be Beef Stew, but that beef will be entirely cooked by boiling, which is obviously a false thing to do. This searing step changes the taste, I swear.) It’ll look like this to start:

Second, remove the beef from the cast iron skillet. It’ll look like this by now:

(Note: this is not well done at all. (I mean the done-ness of the meat; in another sense, this is actually done incredibly well. Yay me!) There’s still plenty of pink available. But see those crispy bits: that’s what you’re looking for. Actually, they could have been crispier, if I’d let the pan heat up more, but you can’t win ’em all, right? Where would you put ’em?)

Next: add a bit more oil to the hot dirty skillet, bring it back to temperature, then add the diced potatoes. Get them a bit crispy as well, again to help preserve some structure when they’re in the soup stew. (Whatever the fuck it is.) They’ll look like this:

While you’re at it, caramelise the onion a bit. This will give it a slightly sweeter flavour, which is nice in the final soup stew, I think. If you don’t think so, then 1. you’re wrong; 2. skip this step, Wrongy McWrongFace. Here:

Now your main ingredients are ready to go. At this point, make a roux, then add all these stew chunks to the roux. Chuck in a bit of bourbon or beer if you’ve got some handy (note in the lead picture, as always, I had some handy). Lends a good taste to the beef. Or add it to the beef while it’s in the skillet alone. Hell, I don’t care. Just get some liquor into this dish to warm your heart’s cockles. Like this:

In this image, I’ve stirred everything around, coating the stuff with roux, more or less. Then I crushed a couple of those beef stock cubes and added some garlic salt and black pepper.

(This recipe has been quite serious, I feel, and not at all controversial. So I’ll add this: I don’t really have a problem with Socialism. Agree? Disagree? Leave a comment. (That’ll keep the newcomers busy; it’s my site, fuck comments, I like Socialism. Hah!))

(Joke: How do you make a milkshake? Give a cow a pogo stick. (Is he going to stop with the stupid puns? No. Obviously you haven’t met Brian.)

Now, add water and dump it all in your crock pot and let it crock (that’s a verb, right?) overnight — or at least as long as humanly possible. That’s what gets the beef all stewy (not angry, but moist and bursting with flavour. (I wish that was how I felt when I stewed.)) Check it:

That’s a lot of fluid, isn’t it? So is this stew or soup? (Oh the controversy!) The ingredients will absorb lots of water and it’ll thicken up over time. Don’t worry. And I can’t be bothered to stand guard over the damned crock pot while it’s crocking (I like this idea that “crock” might be a verb; is it? There’s no way to find out), so I just add a bit more water than I mean there to be. (Does that make sense as an instruction? No. No it doesn’t. Or I’m utterly incompetent (beef pun?))

After all’s said and done, serve with a slice of bread or something. It’ll look this awesome:

Yeah, that’s right. I ate the first bowl of this while sitting in my favourite blue chair. Those are my shoes down there. And a box from Office Max containing little Raymond’s school supplies. Oh and Charlie’s new basketball shoes. So there’s your little behind-the-scenes shot of life beyond my kitchen, you nosy bastards.

That reminds me: Ray needs new school shoes. Sorry I gotta go.

Anyway, in Spanish, “salsa” simply means “sauce”. But here in the English-speaking world, when we say “salsa” we usually mean a spicy tomato-based chilli sauce that makes Mexican cuisine the world’s best cuisine on Earth.

Salsa comes in many textures, colours, and degrees of heat. A jar of Old El Paso, for example, tends to be an overly-sweet, chunky tomato, chunky pepper stew, utterly insipid in its flavourings, utterly bereft of onion. Here, we’re not aiming for such a mess. Instead, this is a blended salsa. You’ll find this variety in real Mexican restaurants — and by real I mean ones in the greater Los Angeles area, because that’s what I’m familiar with and therefore that’s the only variety worth talking about.

Onward and upward: Ingredients.

• Tomatoes
• Peppers (or capsicum, for those speaking the Queen’s English)
• Onion
• Cilantro (or coriander, which is the same thing in alternate English)
• Cumin (or taco seasoning of some variety if you’re not a purist wanker)
• Salt (or garlic salt) and pepper
• A blender

Here’s what’s so beautiful about this recipe: it’s simple. By now you know me (hi, I’m Brian), and you know it’s all about technique and not overloading your dishes with bullshit (not literally, but also literally).

To start, get some water boiling. While it starts boiling, slice the tops off the tomatoes, lay them flat, and cut a shallow X across the back. This idea is that you’ll blanche the tomatoes, which is to scald them in boiling water in order to get the skins off. The X at the bottom will make it super easy to peel off the blanched skin. Here. It’ll look like this:

You probably asked yourself, “how many tomatoes”? Well there’s your answer.

The blanching process looks like this:

Pluck them from the water after about thirty seconds. The idea is not to cook any of the tomato flesh; the idea is to loosen the skin. They’ll look a little something like this:

Peel the skins and dump them in the blender.

Then, take the seeds out of the peppers you’ve chosen. Which peppers? How do I know what you like?? For this batch, I used one green bell pepper, one red bell pepper, and a handful of pickled jalapenos I had in a jar. I take the seeds out of the bell peppers first, then Julienne them (cut into strips, that is), then throw them in the blender.

Do the same with the onion. (I don’t mean to take the seeds out of the onion. There aren’t any seeds in there. If you go looking for seeds inside an onion, you’ll be sorely disappointed. In fact, at the centre of an onion is — dun dun dunnnnnh — nothing.)

Can you use hotter peppers? Of course. I have delicate children at home and they don’t know the joys of excruciatingly searing heat in their mouths. They’ll learn eventually. For your part — obviously — use what you like. It’s Spanish for “sauce” for chrissake! Put whatever you want in there.

Anyway, at this point, you’ve got something like this going on (background cactus optional):

Oh yeah, I added the cilantro too. How much? Well, how much do you like the taste of cilantro? Same with the onion. For this batch, I used one medium onion — and that’ll provide some serious onion taste, but I like onion taste. And I used half a bunch of cilantro that I picked up at New World. (What’s New World, you ask? It’s a New Zealand-owned supermarket chain. I’m not saying that you, fair reader, need to visit New Zealand just to procure a bunch cilantro (though they’ll call it coriander — Queen’s English and all), but it’s worth a visit to New Zealand (if you’re not already here) in general, even though the salsa here is shit, except for mine, which is mind-bogglingly good, as I’ve said. Keep your eye on Betelgeuse!)

Now, notice how tall this stack of ingredients is. When you turn on the blender — WAIT! We’re not ready yet! — you’ll need to press the stuff down into the blades. This is incredibly dangerous.

Before you do this horrifically, potentially dismembering blending, add your seasonings. For this batch, I added a bit of some random “Mexican Seasoning” (from New World, duh), and a healthy smattering of Lawry’s garlic salt (straight outta Los Angeles!), and a few twists of fresh ground pepper. How much? This much:

Now, grab a potato masher or something like it. Turn on the blender and give the ingredients a gentle push. Now look, I’m not taking responsibility for the safety of your fingers here. You know roughly where the blades are at the bottom of that death vessel. You know roughly how long your fingers are. Steer clear. But you have to get the tomatoes ka-jiggled up enough to get the whole mess blending. Use your best judgement. If you lack best judgement, then use someone else’s.

And that’s it. You’re done. It should look absolutely identical to the featured picture here, unless you stuffed it up somehow, which is difficult to imagine given how incredibly simple it really is. (Except for that part where you potentially lost a digit.)

Enjoy this blended salsa as a dip for corn chips. Put it in a taco. You can even pretend it’s soup, like our little boy Raymond does — god he’s weird.

I first learned about roux when I was working in the kitchen of a horribly pretentious golf course, run by horribly pretentious people, in particular the horribly pretentious chef, who wasn’t trained as a chef in any verifiable way. Consequently, he put on airs, presumably to puff up his otherwise-absent cheffiness. These airs instantly vaporised upon first taste of his ghastly and insipid dishes. (He and I did not get along. Shocking, I know.)

Aside: this golf course was host to a major PGA tour stop, and one year my assignment was to be the on-the-scene omelette cook on the breakfast buffet. One of the golfers — this was thirty years ago, so I can’t remember who, but he was a big name in the game — he had ordered his omelette and I made it and I was serving it when he stopped me and asked, regarding a clump of some other buffet fare: “What is this”? It was the chef’s special crab meat quiche, made with plastic-packaged, frozen crab meat — quite the opposite of pretension on that ingredient list I should say, pip pip.

I told the golfer, and he responded: “Mmm.” Oh, how surprising, I thought. Perhaps he’s savouring this lusciously-textured, freshly-defrosted food product. But then he continued, unfazed by my presence, precisely enunciating each adjective in this trenchant soliloquy:

“That is some nasty, foul-tasting shit.”

I recall bursting out laughing, serving the omelette, and enjoying a sense of vindication for several joyful hours. Come to think of it, I hold on to that vindication to this day. Maybe I’m a tad grudgie? So it goes.

To spin this positively, Mr Chef Guy introduced me to roux, and after I learned how pretentiously he had been fucking it up — he never waited long enough for peanut butter toastiness, for example, but we’ll get to that step in short order — I worked hard to develop my own technique.

Roux is simple. Ingredients are:

• Butter
• Flour
• (No hair)

First release all pretension, because all you truly need are patience and care.

Over medium heat, in a pan of some sort, melt the butter. Then, add as much flour. They say to use equal portions, by weight, of butter and flour. Actually, it doesn’t have to be butter; it can be any kind of fat or oil. And you don’t have to measure precisely — I never do, even when you’re meant to, which is among the primary reasons I’m not a chemist, a baker, or a crystal meth maker (isn’t that a nursery rhyme? Should be.)

Your task now is to keep the substance moving. I prefer to use a whisk. You can use a fork. Or whatever you like really (though I don’t recommend fingers). Just keep the stuff moving.

At first, it will be clumpy. After about ten minutes — yes, be patient — the mixture will really loosen up and turn liquid. At this point, watch closely for the colour to change. When it’s a pale-peanut-butter colour, it’s done.

What do you do with this substance, you ask? Good question. 1) Don’t eat it. 2) Use it to thicken things, especially soups, gravies, and cheese sauce. Generally, when you need something thickened, use roux. It’s smooth, toasty, and damned effective — three adjectives you’d love to see on any epitaph.

“Here lies Brian. He was smooth, toasty, and damned effective.”

Beautiful, isn’t it. See the roux. Live the roux. Unlock the good life.

Skip forward to New Zealand and I soon learned that there’s a different butcher book that uses different names from the North American book. Lucky us, the skirt is treated much the same in both books — though there are other cuts that will do the trick for this recipe, including rump and topside. Let the lowest cost guide you.

Let me emphasise, this is cheap stuff. And it’s cheap stuff largely because so remarkably few people use cast iron and sharp knives.

The secret to cheap steak is in the preparation, the searing, the resting, and some well-placed strokes of a blade at the end of it all.

First, get the steak. Got it? Great.

Now, violate all health and safety codes by leaving the steak out in the big scary world for a few hours. Here’s what I do (as derived from an excellent chapter on Meat in J. Kenji Lopez-Alt’s The Food Lab): On a cooking sheet, sprinkle some salt — seasoned or whatever — and some pepper. Lay the cow slab on the sheet and rub it around a bit. Then, sprinkle further salty seasonings across the top. If it’s summer and you’re pestered by swarms of flies, a sheet of baking paper over the top keeps them out.

Here’s what happens as the meat sits:

• The salt draws out water.
• It warms and it reabsorbs the water more evenly.

Importantly, warm meat cooks more evenly, and it doesn’t severely affect the temperature of the pan when you put it in.

Let the steak go for three or four hours. If it’s down to room temperature, all the better. In the meantime, consider the appropriate beverage choice. (Recently I stumbled across Buffalo Trace bourbon, which I reckon enhances the taste of all food, along with the humour of all jokes, the adorableness of all puppies, and the general fecundity of all conversations. Highly recommended in this instance.)

Note: if you buy skirt steak at my local butcher (who wields knives with respectable still and gusto, I dare say), there will be a little sticker on it that says “slow cook”. That, my friend, is bullshit. Do not destroy the greatness of this beautifully cheap meat in a slow cooker; to do so will wreck the strong and gorgeous flavour of the meat.

Here’s the thing about cheap meat: it has flavour. Expensive stuff, like the eye fillet / filet mignon (depending on the butcher book you’re following), have very little taste. They’re tender no matter how stupidly you cut them at the end of it all, but they need help from a glace or sauce of some sort. (Expensive restaurants regularly push their expensive meats coupled with fancy cherry burgundy reductions or whatnot. This is the reason. Avoid this. Get a fucking rump steak, cut it right, and enjoy the taste of pure, unadulterated cow. Mmm(oo).)

Here’s the technique:

Heat up some butter in your cast iron skillet until it smokes.

Lay the warm, salted steak in the skillet.

When you see the meat changing colour along the sides, flip it. Now, here’s a contentious point: you can flip it as often as you like. Kenji Lopez-Alt did the research for us, and it turns out you lose nothing with extra flips. Leave single flip pedantry for wanking data haters and their eye fillet nonsense. It’s all balderdash, poppycock, and twaddle.

It will take practice with your setup to know when the meat is cooked to your preference. The featured picture here is after about five minutes of cooking — then another five to ten minutes of resting.

DO NOT SKIP THIS STEP. Let the steak rest. You can let it rest in the skillet, but be aware that it will continue to cook in there. (I’ve been having good luck with this technique lately by slightly under-cooking before shutting off the flame.) By letting the steak rest, the juices redistribute themselves evenly back into the steak. When you cut into it, then, it doesn’t leak out all the goodness. Aim for this.

Now, like wood, steak has grain. You want to cut the meat into strips ACROSS the grain. If you cut with the grain, it will end up stringy and inedible. If you cut perpendicular to the grain, it will literally fall apart in your mouth. Note also in the featured image how little juice has leaked out of the steak after I cut it, because: RESTING!

There you have it. Keep it cheap and get some rest. You’ve earned it.

First, if you’ve rediscovered a wilting head in the fridge, you can revive it.

Second, there’s no secret to cooking this stuff; it’s all technique.

Now before you start thinking, hey there are more things about broccoli, let me add: there are more things about broccoli.

For instance, the stems, chopped and fried, are as delicious as the rest. Also, it’s astonishingly yummy when battered and deep fried (though this should come as no surprise, given the unparalleled piquancy that deep frying infuses into any vaguely edible comestible).

To the first point: broccoli should never be limp when served. It should be crispy(-ish) and full of flavour. Wilting broccoli can be revived if you prepare it right — and there’s really only one way to prepare broccoli.

This is the second point: technique. Never boil broccoli. Maybe you think that’s the easy thing to do, but it’s cruel to the broccoli. Don’t be cruel.

Note well: a preference for the easy way is generally a sign that you could improve your disposition toward stretching your skills. Some say character can’t be taught, but I reckon anyone can cipher out that boiled broccoli, especially tried side-by-side with skillet-fried broccoli, has all the taste and texture of boiled worms. That kind of ciphering, right there, is a hallmark of character development. Aim for that.

Anyway, here’s what to do:

First, cut the broccoli into trees. Then, cut each tree down the middle. This is important because the flat surfaces will lay flat on the skillet two steps hence.

Heat up a cast iron skillet coated with a thin layer of oil. When the pan smokes, it’s ready.

Dump the broccoli into the skillet. Use tongs to get the flat edges face down.

Sprinkle salt pepper and garlic to taste (or use a pre-combined seasoning if you prefer).

Check one piece and see that the flat side is a tad browned. Once this condition is met, proceed.

Dribble a small amount of water across the skillet and stir the broccoli around. This steams the top side of the broccoli without wilting it. How much water? I can’t tell you; I don’t know; you’ll know it when you see it.

The broccoli should turn a bright green.

It’s done.

Note that when you added that water, you released the seasonings from the pan and they will have coated the broccoli. This is the most important part of the technique; it’s where the flavour comes from. That, plus the skillet’s patina, which you should never, under any circumstances, ever attempt to scrub flat black. It’s that patina gives cast iron its charm; if charm isn’t your thing, stick with teflon.

Note also: there is an apple in the featured picture. Why? Because there was an apple on the cutting board when I started using it. Why didn’t I move the apple? It wasn’t in the way.

*

Over the years, you develop these sorts of techniques, and they’re the open-secret to good cooking. I won’t say this stuff can’t be taught, but good cooking amounts to more than good recipes. It’s the skillet, it’s the timing, it’s sprinkling the salt without over-thinking the whole affair. This is the kind of thing you nurture over time, and there’s no substitute for having a go, stuffing it up, and going again.

Same goes for everything else you do, including, perhaps surprisingly, philosophy. Best to keep that in mind when teaching and when learning. Keeps your modesty intact.

…and don’t get me started on asparagus.

The best thing about cast iron, over any other kind of frying pan, is that it’ll last your whole life. Teflon wears off no matter how careful you are. Shiny steel pans look nice hanging up if you keep them scrubbed, but they don’t hold heat like that cast iron can. And don’t ever use soap in your seasoned skillet. A good old fashioned nylon brush and some hot water will do the job, or some say a salted half a potato works if you’ve gunked it up with egg or cheese or whatever. Just be careful not to un-season it with detergents.

While I’m at it, when you crack an egg, crack it like it’s done you wrong. You’ve got to put a good slice in that shell if you don’t want shell pieces raining down into your batter or skillet, depending on what you’re up to. Give it a good thwack on the edge of something, a bowl, the pan, maybe even the back of a knife, and dump out the insides quick, efficiently, with swift wrist motions. Eggs are delicate but you only treat them delicate until they’re of some use to you. Never treat people like that.

When your skillet is dirty, don’t soak it. And by all means, in general, don’t leave dirty dishes in the sink. The sink is one of your most useful kitchen tools, and if it’s full of stuff you should have washed, you render that tool un-usable. If you have a dishwasher, load it as you go, run it when it’s full, and keep its filter clean. Good heavens for your own sanity keep its filter clean.

Another thing about dishes: there’s a certain set of tools you use all the time. A couple good knives. A spatula (or whatever you prefer to call it: turner, flipper, lifter….) A couple of big stirring spoons and a reliable set of tongs. These things you keep close at hand — in my kitchen they hang on hooks over the sink — and they never ever under any circumstances go in the dishwasher. The dishwasher is for stuff you have more than one of.

Finally, keep your knives extremely sharp. You don’t need a fancy knife sharpener; just a stone will do. There’s no one right way to sharpen with a stone and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. The way I do it these days, I hold the knife at the edge of the cutting board and rub the stone against it. I aim for about a twenty degree angle, but it’s all by eye and feel so who knows what it really is. There’s thunderous debate about what angle you should use, but pay little mind unless you’re getting into the business of sharpening full time. Your customers might care, and you’ll have to be fully honest with them. For the kitchen, just clean up the edge, give it a couple swipes on a steel to take off any burrs, and get to chopping.

*

There’s a lot of years in this. A lot of misguided moves and flat-out mistakes. Problems discovered and solved.

The only thing makes this all worth it is having someone to tell it to. Now, if you start worrying about how many people you tell it to, that’s a dead end, I tell you. You worry like that and suddenly, it’s never enough. Takes the fun right of it.

Be happy with the telling. Even if it’s just you reminding yourself of these little things, take some comfort in the fact that you know these things. You’ve made it this far.